


names called out across the water

by meanpancake



Series: water and blood [1]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Canon Divergence, Gen, M/M, vague timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-23 18:15:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12513364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meanpancake/pseuds/meanpancake
Summary: Did he mean to save Billy? The more it’s established as the truth, the less Flint trusts Billy’s version of the events.





	names called out across the water

**Author's Note:**

  * For [naeviastark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/naeviastark/gifts).



> Please bear with me re: spoken language (this is Spartacus all over again) and also re: ships (what are ships??) and also re: all the water metaphors (I coudn't help it). Canon compliant until it's not. Also please know: Cha made me do it!
> 
> Warnings: Internalized homophobia, gore, violence, choking, drowning, suicidal ideation, mentions of death and murder (most of it very implicit)

**names called out across the water**

 

This is what drowning feels like.

Black water tingling with salt, black water in his mouth, nose, eyes, black water swallowing all noise except his rushing heartbeat, black water dragging him down. Black water surrounded by black water and black water and more black water.

This is what drowning feels like.

And then – it stops. Black water spits him out, he spits it out, his breath finds its way to the surface of the sea, black water dripping from his hair, his beard, his clothes. The stars above blink, the water whispers in all tongues and none.

Flint wipes over his face and finds that he’s still drowning. He’s been drowning ever since the day he left London. He’s been drowning and he’s drowned, it’s all water, he’s water, and they’re dangerous and hungry and merciless and feared. Water doesn’t love and it shouldn’t be loved.

Only fools love the sea.

Miranda loves him. Loves James, thinks there’s still a James left to love. But James died with Thomas. Miranda doesn’t want to believe that there’s nothing left of James but Flint and black water. He lacks the strength to correct her, he lacks the strength to disappoint her. God forgive him.

The Walrus lies still upon the water. Nassau glimmers with light, scattered across the horizon.

Flint wonders if Silver’s out on deck, watching him, or if he’s hidden within the city, watching him. He’s always watching, always, always, always. He can’t seem to get away from him. He can’t make him want to get away from him. A smile splits his lips, like it’s carved into his face with a knife. He wonders, then, if he’d held onto Silver’s hand longer than onto Billy’s.

He doesn’t dare finish the thought.

The pain in his shoulder slowly creeps back into his flesh. The salt burns. Would he trade places with Billy, drowning in his stead? Black water filling up everything, water in his lungs, blackness in his eyes, coldness bleeding into his weightless body. He wants the sea to eat him, but that’s selfish, and it wouldn’t undo his crimes, so he resists the call of the sea.

Flint feels heavy as he drags himself out of the water and lies down on the beach. The waves are licking at his boots, sand sticks to his clothes, covers his skin. He should go home, home to Miranda.

He can’t.

He must.

This is what drowning feels like.

*

Silver’s kept Billy from him. Kept him hidden away for _days_.

Flint tries to reign in his guilt, fury, betrayal, yet Silver sees right through him. He says it was for his best. For Billy’s best. For the crew’s best, sounding almost as if he cared about these men and if it wasn’t merely about the Spanish gold. A liar lying for other people’s best and for the gold’s sake. Not a selfless lie, a lie serving only one true purpose.

Silver needs him. He doesn’t need Billy. He doesn’t know whom Billy needs. And Flint needs neither of them. Still, he accepts both Silver and Billy back on his crew.

He wonders what truly kept Silver from informing him about Billy’s survival. (Billy’s _survival_.)

Did Silver fear his wrath? Did he fear – did he fear the truth? Ah, yes, the truth, lurking beneath the surface of black water. The truth Flint can’t quite grasp, the truth – the truth that sounds like a lie coming from Billy’s mouth when he claims it’s true that Flint did not push him into the water, when he tells the men that he tried to save him.

Did he? Did he mean to save Billy? The more it’s established as the truth, the less Flint trusts Billy’s version of the events. He knows what it is, deep in its core. A truth that isn’t the truth, but could be the truth, could potentially be the truth if he could just _hope_.

Flint can’t hope. The truth drowns him. He can’t remember when it hasn’t.

Billy’s body is crushed; not by black water, by white sun and British cruelty. And isn’t that an irony? Believing Billy floating in blackness when he was stuck under whiteness and British stripes? Broken ribs, broken skin, unbroken will.

Would he trade places now, knowing that it wasn’t drowning that has awaited him? Not water that claimed his life? Water like he’s always wanted; feared; _known_.

Flint can’t bear to look at Billy. Not really. And Silver notices, he always notices. He wonders if Billy notices, too. He knows it doesn’t matter. He wants to stop thinking about it, yet finds himself returning to wonder. Each time. All the time.

*

He approaches Billy in a calm night. The sea lies still and doesn’t whisper. Flint looks at the water – not Billy, never Billy – and focuses on the railing’s water-worn wood under his palms. It’s smooth and warms under his touch.

“What happened in the storm?”

“I fell.”

For a moment Flint allows himself to believe it. Relief washes over him, leaves him trembling, and he wants to laugh. The memory of letting go of Billy’s hand changes; turns to a slip, an unfortunate accident, _not his fault_. But then Billy steps closer, holds onto the railing with white knuckles, and Flint’s relief twists, turns cold in his chest.

“What happened to Mr. Gates?”, Billy asks softly.

“I defended myself.”

Silence. Flint feels the truth changing. An ugly thing, stealing the breath from his lungs. He looks at Billy, just for a heartbeat, and Billy turns away. And then, just like that, he’s gone.

Flint punches the railing as hard as he can. The night is still calm and silent. His knuckles bleed. His heart bleeds. He has no heart.

He has gold to take and a war to start.

Billy Bones and the bony remains of his conscience won’t stand in his way.

*

It becomes a ritual. Lying to each other. Turning the truth into something less sharp, less guilty, less condemning. Flint doesn’t understand. All the lies for his sake…? To what end?

“What happened in the storm?”, he asks Billy as he passes him by and Billy doesn’t hesitate with his answer. _I fell_. He never hesitates, never flinches, no matter who asks him about the night he went overboard the Walrus.

Flint nods curtly. Acknowledges the lie as almost believable. Silver is an excellent teacher -- Silver is a dangerous teacher. He wonders what he promised Billy for his version of the events. What he threatened him with. And above all he wonders why Billy still looks at Silver with thinly veiled adoration. It’s unmistakable. Flint knows these looks, he knows what they mean, and he knows what happens to kind boys who grow into kind men and end up with beasts.

Silver and he are one of a kind.

“What happened to Mr. Gates?”, Billy asks after a while. The sun falls hard on his face and outshines the scars, the dirt, the exhaustion. For a moment he seems whole, untouched by tragedy. Untouched by him.

Nonsense. Fucking bullshit.

Flint tears his eyes away from Billy, feels like he’s about to drown in black water, but it doesn’t matter. He tells the lie as if it comes from Silver’s mouth: “I defended myself.”

*

Blood is water and water is blood.

It’s red, and redder, and hot, yet the salt tastes the same. It whispers in the same tongues. Sometimes blood drowns him too. Not in black cold depths, but in a hot rushing flood. He doesn’t hear the screams, doesn’t hear his blade cut through flesh, graze bone. There’s nothing but him and the blood and his heartbeat.

Death vibrates through Flint’s body and leaves him feeling shamefully alive.

Maybe he’s not water, maybe he’s blood. Less pure, angrier. More human. Maybe that’s all he can ever be: tainted red water. And maybe that’s the reason the sea keeps rejecting his sacrifice, keeps spitting him out when all he wants is to be swallowed whole.

Flint knows he shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t allow himself to care, yet here he is, caring. Is that what’s become of him? Someone who cares – but only with a sword?

There’s a certain pattern that he can’t deny. He cares about Miranda; he had shown her by killing. And now, what? He cares about Billy? Maybe. Mostly he’s guilty. He knows that. He wants to be redeemed. He’ll ask for forgiveness by killing.

And maybe that’s his greatest sin, pretending killing is caring, pretending he can wash himself clean with the blood of those who have wronged his people. Or maybe it’s pretending he never wronged them himself, pretending he is somehow worthier of living than the others are.

Flint cuts off the British captain’s head, pushes the torturer’s headless body down into the sand, and wipes the blood from his mouth. It’s a beautiful, bright day, and the sea calls out his name.

His greatest sin? He smiles, breathlessly. He doesn’t care anymore.

*

Flint wordlessly hands Billy the sack with the captain’s head. Blood has left brown marks in the linen. The rotting flesh attracts flies. Their wings make a whirring sound and it fills his head.

Billy frowns. He looks inside the sack and his frown melts into an unreadable expression. He looks at Flint; it’s daggers, blue icy daggers, carving into his chest. He has expected disgust, maybe relief, anything but this.

“What’s that for?”

Flint shrugs. “Your loyalty.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, and contempt creeps into his eyes. “I’m always loyal to my crew, captain.”

*

The ritual turns to tradition turns to a battle neither of them can, _will_ win.

“What happened in the storm?”

Silence.

“What happened to Mr. Gates?”

Silence.

At least they don’t lie anymore.

*

Flint wants to go to Miranda. He can’t. He can’t stay at the tavern either. It’s too crowded and too many of his men are here. Silver is here, not Billy. Not that it makes a difference. He’s itching to depart, to do something, anything, but he finds himself stuck in Nassau.

The sea calls. He follows her, as he always has. Since Thomas, at least. Without an anchor, why resist the water?

The waves whisper softly, soothingly. With a body cool and black, they pull him close. Water hugs him, his shirt sticks to his body, and for a moment he’s calm. Flint looks up and there’s the moon, a huge white disc, and he drowns in light, memories, water.

The sea spits him out as he’s ready to embrace her, make their connection eternal, and there’s something ironic about that, something bitter yet beautiful, that would’ve made the Hamiltons smile, philosophize, and make him feel at home. Flint clenches his fists, his teeth, and focuses on the hatred. Focuses on revenge.

A small part of him wonders then, if Billy does the same. He killed his mentor, after all. Maybe that’s worse than killing a lover, maybe you only get one mentor in your life. Thinking about his mentor, bitterness spreads in his mouth. What he would give to kill him, his _mentor_. Stick a knife between his ribs and watch as he bleeds to death.

He’d kill them all. Everyone complicit in Thomas’ death. He’d kill them and not regret it. He’d kill them and enjoy it. Like Miranda who enjoys it too, knowing responsibility took its toll, brought death upon the guilty parties.

Flint wants to go to Miranda and hold her and ask for her advice. But he stays.

The sea whispers and the moon watches and he waits for something that doesn’t happen.

*

“You’re watching me,” Billy says and sits down beneath Flint. He looks better, less tortured, more real, and he’s heard he is becoming himself again. Not around Flint, but around the others. Around Silver.

Flint shrugs, doesn’t reply. Dawn sinks upon the world, colors bleeding into each other, paying their respects to the drowning sun. Their war ended. They don’t talk, they don’t ask questions. It’s over.

“You watch me, and I see desire, but I can’t for the life of me tell if you desire to kill me or fuck me,” Billy continues, cross-armed and looking pensively at the sky. “But if I were to guess I’d say it’s both.”

Flint smiles hard, one-sided. “In which order?”

“You know what they say about you.” Billy says it with such casualty that the words don’t sting.

Flint nods. Of course, he’s heard. All their speculations, all their lies, all their rumors. They make him into a monster where it’s untrue. Simply because it makes for the better story. Captain Flint, killer, looter, enemy of her Majesty, and… that. His chest hurts. He wonders if that’s his wounded pride or the ever-lasting aftermath of Thomas’ death. He wonders if the stories would be the same if they involved women.

They sit in silence.

The sun disappears. Darkness settles. The sea starts whispering again.

Billy gets up, and looks at Flint. “I believe many things about you.” He shrugs. “I believe you pushed me into the water. I can’t prove it and I don’t trust my memory. I could be wrong. But I don’t believe I am.” Something like guilt flickers over his face, and then pain. “They say you killed him because of what happened to me. I think I believe that, too.”

Flint stares out onto the water. The truth feels like drowning, but it’s something he can handle.

“But for what it’s worth, I don’t believe what they say about… that.”

Flint wonders if it makes a difference if the men he fucks end up dead without his doing so. He wonders if Thomas were still alive if he hadn’t given into the desire. He wonders if that’s why he hasn’t touched another man in a decade. The empty chasm in his chest where his heart used to be aches.

He doesn’t notice when Billy leaves.

*

Flint sits at his desk in the captain’s cabin. Sun falls through the window; the Walrus gently sways in the water. It’s a calm day. He feels calm.

Until someone knocks at the door. He grunts something intelligible and the door is opened. Billy steps into the cabin. His eyes fall to the spot where Mr. Gates died. Where Flint choked him. As if he _knows_. Maybe Silver told him?

“Ready to set sail, captain.”

Flint nods.

Billy nods and turns around, but instead lingers in the doorframe. He’s too big for it, almost ducked under its arch. “Don’t I deserve to know?”

“Close the door.”

Billy closes the door behind him, looks at him. He looks conflicted, angry. Balls his fists on his sides.

Flint gets up and walks to Billy, who unintentionally takes a step back. “He accused me of pushing you into the water. He threatened me. I killed him. Right on this spot,” he says and looks up to Billy, “but you knew that already. Someone slipped it to you. Yet you insist on me repeating it for you. Why?”

“They say you choked him.”

“They are right.”

Billy takes a step toward him, towering over him. He grabs Flint by the throat, suddenly, and pushes him against the wall. “Like this?”

He should fight back and a part of him wants to, but another part, the bigger part, doesn’t care enough. Sees through Billy Bones who won’t hurt him for his crew’s sake. Billy Bones who won’t kill him for his crew’s sake. Billy Bones who will keep lying for his crew’s sake. Billy Bones who came back from the dead for his crew.

“On the floor,” Flint tells him quietly.

Billy makes an aggrieved sound and then they are on the floor. Billy’s pressing down on him, holding him down, and black water rushes through Flint’s ears. And then the pressure is gone, and he blinks, and Billy’s breathing heavily. Desire burns brightly in his eyes and Flint can’t tell if he wants to kill or fuck him.

“You fucking bastard,” Billy breathes and comes down hard to kiss him. He tastes like salt that turns bitter on his tongue. He tastes like regret and guilt and craving. His weight bears down on him, body rocking, pinning him on the spot.

An apology dies in his throat and Flint swallows it. He pulls Billy closer. The selfish desire, the _want_ , they take over, and he lets them. For the first time in forever, he lets them.

It’s bare minutes before a climax clashes with reality and comes shattering down on them in a million sharp pieces. Billy has red ears and blue eyes, and Flint doesn’t move as he gets up and braces himself against the wall.

Silence stretches. Flint grows cold despite the warmth of the day, the warmth of the wooden floor, the warmth of his body. He doesn’t feel as bad as he should. _Give it time_ , whisper the waves.

Billy smiles desperately. “Is this what you wanted?” He shakes his head, wipes over his lips, shaking. “You win. I won’t ask again.” Turning to leave, he says listlessly: “You’re forgiven, captain.”

Flint closes his eyes and hears the door fall shut. He breathes in and his lungs hurt.

Yes, this is what drowning feels like.

 

***

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
